


I Hope This Letter Finds You Well

by puppyteeth



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Angst, Arguing, BLOOD FOR THE BLOOD GOD, But he kinda-sorta adopts him anyway, Dadza, Dysfunctional Family, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Family Feels, Family Issues, Found Family, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Injury Recovery, Jschlatt is Toby Smith | Tubbo's Parent, Letters, Major Character Injury, Phil Watson is Not Technoblade's Parent (Video Blogging RPF), Philza doesn't age, Pogtopia, Post-Manberg-Pogtopia War on Dream Team SMP (Video Blogging RPF), Sad Ending, Tommy doesn't age, avian philza, techno's cabin, technoblade never dies, wilbur and tommy are siblings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-13
Updated: 2021-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-21 06:01:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30017232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/puppyteeth/pseuds/puppyteeth
Summary: After years of traveling and avoiding the inevitable, Philza finally gets an invitation to see his sons in the country they built after the events of the L'Manberg revolution.  When the visit turns sour and he leaves with the intent of never returning, he is left to watch from a distance as his son turns against his own country and descends slowly into madness.  Phil knows what he might have to do to stop his son from blowing up a nation; but he isn't sure he has the strength to do it.
Relationships: Technoblade & Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), TommyInnit & Phil Watson, Wilbur Soot & Phil Watson, Wilbur Soot & Technoblade & TommyInnit & Phil Watson, Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit & Phil Watson
Comments: 3
Kudos: 16





	1. The Water Under Your Bridge

Phil remembered a time when things were different, when things were peaceful.

A time when the land was completely devoid of empires, countries, and kingdoms. When people survived solely on their own, and the forests lay untouched and thriving with trees and animals. A time when the majority of the world he lived in was vast and unexplored, and other dimensions weren’t even a possibility in one’s mind.

A time before unfair rulers, relentless tyrants, and narcissistic kings.

A time before laws. A time before war.

That time seemed to be about the furthest thing from reality as he strode down the cobblestone streets of a country he couldn’t believe he was actually visiting. He kept his gaze forwards, focussed on the path ahead of him as he weaved through the crowd of merchants, travelers, and people from everywhere looking for work amongst the many shops and businesses located along the streets just outside the walls of the country.

He clutched the reigns of his horse with one hand and the handle of his bag in the other as he strode past--never one for crowded places and the stink of the city. People turned to give him curious second-glances as he walked past. Children pointed at him in passing, making amazed remarks about never seeing a man with wings before just to be shushed by their parents or distracted by their peers. 

Phil paid them no mind, though. He was much more concerned with the fact that he had to keep said wings from smacking someone in the face every time he strode past. He kept them uncomfortably close to his back, making them as small as possible. He squinted against the orange glow of the setting sun, still blazing with heat despite how late it was in the day as he caught sight of the giant, white building just barely peeking over the gigantic obsidian walls before him.

The country itself was founded upon the use of magic, which was seen as illegal under any and all circumstances for the longest time. A select few individuals began an underground trading system of potions and enchantments from a dimension never before explored by those of the neighbouring kingdom, and from there their business only grew from a small gang of dealers to a whole new dogmatic revolution with a promise of freedom.

It had been nearly an entire year since L’manberg had gained its independence from the kingdom of Dream SMP; a land once lead by a volatile and unkind king who fought only for control and power over his people. The leader had been driven out, forced into a life of exile and was replaced by a new king; one who respected L’manberg as a nation. Some said that the past king had been killed by the president of L’manberg himself, while other people believed he simply ran away to start a new life somewhere far off.

But since L’manberg gained its independence, Dream’s past rule was considered taboo in all the neighbouring kingdoms. A forbidden topic. A discarded nightmare of the past. And though nobody dared to utter his name aloud, the thought of the tyrant still being out there somewhere planning his revenge caused everyone to remain on edge.

Anxiety turned in Phil’s gut as he got closer and closer to the gates of the walls, guarded by two soldiers dawning enchanted netherite complete with matching tridents. One elbowed the other upon catching sight of Phil climbing the steps, and they both sat up just a little straighter when they saw the winged stranger wielding weapons and armor of similar strength, if not stronger. Phil felt awkward as he approached, especially considering he could take them both on in a fight and win if he wanted to, not that he did, of course. He was there on friendly terms.

Or at least; he hoped he would be.

“State your name and business,” The shorter of the two spoke, standing up a little straighter.

“Philza,” he answered quickly, bowing his head in a respectful greeting, “I’ve come for a meeting with the president.”

The soldier raised an eyebrow. Phil's horse whinnied quietly, almost as if in amusement. Normally, he never bothered to be so formal in events such as these; royalty and titles meant little to nothing to him.

The man from before spoke again, his voice carrying a subtle hostility, “the president has no meetings scheduled for today in order to plan for the upcoming election.”

“Oh, well, yeah.” Phil cleared his throat, “that’s because he said I didn’t need to schedule anything.”

“And do you have proof of this?”

Philza nodded, and slid his hand into his bag--only to be met with nothing but the leather of his journals. His face fell, and he opened the bag further to dig through the belongings within it, only to turn up empty-handed.

Shit.

“That’s what I thought.” The soldier said with a snort, waving his hand dismissively, “now shove off.”

Philza blinked, and a part of him almost let out a long breath of relief. Maybe--he didn’t have to face his past after all. Maybe this was the universe’s way of telling him that it wasn’t meant to be, and that the man he intended to visit actually did not want to see his face, much less speak to him. That was fine. Everything was fine. Maybe he could stop and trade with some of the villages he passed on his way there so that the nearly five day long trip wasn’t entirely for nothing.

But a bigger part of him let his wings fall in disappointment. Or in despair at the fact that his sons hadn’t even informed their front guards of his existence. He felt the all-to-familiar tug at his heart strings, like those two simple sentences uttered by that guard had mine-as-well shot him.

Phil nodded, and dropped his gaze. He sighed in understanding as he was about to turn on his heel and high-tail it out of there when the taller of the two guards standing beside the gate spoke up, “wait...Philza, you said?”

He froze, now that he actually got a good look at the man; he could recognize the uncanny green scales splattered across the sides of his face, and the snake-like eyes of a creeper. He stared at Phil with a curious gaze as he finally recognized the winged man.

“Woah,” and just like that, Phil’s spirits were lifted again, “Sam?”

“It is you! You’re here!” Sam dropped his guard immediately as his signature stoic expression melted into a smile. He took a lever to his left and forced it downwards, causing the iron gates to groan as they began to separate. “Come, come...Wilbur’s been expecting you.”

“He has?” The question came from Phil’s mouth as well as the shorter guard’s.

“Well, yeah, of course. You are his father, aren’t you? What’s been keeping you? We sent a letter months ago.”

Father. It had been a while since Phil had been called that. “Yeah, uh...some shit came up. Been busy with things. Couldn’t come as fast as I would have wanted to.”

The other guard grumbled something under his breath and hung back behind Phil, tuning out of the conversation as he whipped his helmet off, revealing a sweaty mess of dark hair barely contained by a peculiar blue beanie. Phil didn’t recognize him; and kept an eye on him as Sam continued to talk and lead him through the streets of L’Manberg.

“Oh, yeah, we understand completely. How were your travels?”

Philza gave the same answer he always did, eyeing the many imposing buildings around him as well as the people who made way for them to pass. “Pretty good. Looks like you guys were busier than I was, though.”

“Yeah. Amazing, isn’t it?” Sam remarked, “Your son put me in charge of the Department of Defense, but I’ve worked on a few of the buildings around here on the side. It’s amazing how fast people started flocking here for potions and all that--and we owe it all to your sons. Your eldest is a natural born leader; you must be proud of him.”

Phil’s heart thudded in his chest as the unmistakable edifice that was the White House came closer and closer. The number of people around began to dwindle, and as the crowds fizzed out Phil could start putting names to those who wandered the courtyard in red, blue, white, and gold uniforms. A flag stood proud above a small garden in the center of the stone pathways, paired nicely with a patch of poppies, a small oak tree, and a babbling fountain.

Despite the crowds, and the extravagant buildings, the forests that had been teared down--even he had to admit how beautiful this all was. How amazing it was how everyone got along, and how people were relishing in this newfound freedom to use magic. How children ran around care-free and content, how people laughed and discussed the latest news on the streets, how despite the staring and strange looks he received--nobody gave him any trouble as he approached the very capital before him.

He couldn’t help but smile at the fact that his sons made all that little settlement a reality--that Wilbur was the one to stand up and fight for what he believed in; for what was right. That the once quiet and reserved boy who tended to stray away from the swords and monsters his younger brother fought with managed to become one of the most renowned leaders on this side of the planet all on his own. All in his early twenties, no less. Another part of him worried that the power would get to his head, though--having seen what happens to government officials thrown into hierarchy without much experience.

“Alex will see your horse to the stables, if that’s okay.” Sam offered.

Gradually, that crushing anxiety and fear of the future Phil felt began to melt into excitement. The winged man sighed, and patted the horse’s neck before he snorted and nudged his side with his snout.

“Relax, mate, it’s only for one night.” Phil quietly consoled the horse, “I’ll be back before you know it.”

The horse snorted, sending Phil a look that could almost be considered a deadpan. Nevertheless, he did as told, and followed the guard back towards the stables on the other side of the courtyard.

Phil let out a breath, watching as his horse disappeared around a corner. There was no going back now--this was actually happening. Whether he felt ready or not, he was going into that building. He didn’t know how his sons would react to seeing his face after nearly dropping off the face of the Earth for so long; or if Tommy still had those discs he gave him, or if Wilbur still had an interest in old fairy tales, or--hell--if he had a family of his own. 

Fuck. He had to be, what, twenty-four years old now?

“You can relax now,” Sam said, dropping his cheerful demeanor slightly as Alex fell out of earshot. “There’s no more crowds from here on out, considering this part of the building is Wilbur’s private quarters. We can go in whenever you’re ready.”

Phil couldn’t help a snort. He’d happily go into those crowds again if it meant he could just get this first meeting done and over with, but that didn’t stop him from taking his time as he yawned and stretched his wings out. The dark feathers flapped twice in the air, stirring the grass and the trees surrounding him as he loosened the muscles tense with nerves.

Avians like him were known for their tendency to stray away from civilization--the mundane ways of city life weren’t fit for a species with a natural thirst for adventure and freedom. They took to the very ends of the earth and to the trees and mountains to build their own families and settlements; and it had been a peaceful time when they walked the Earth.

But as much of his race was driven out to make room for new cities and castles, much of the Avians he once knew as his family began to dwindle in numbers until they became that of a myth--a lost chapter of an old history book, worn and shriveled by time and burned by the people who took charge instead. Which was why family had been the most important thing in the world to him, the only thing he could truly count on.

But, alas, even that was taken from him in the end.

“Yeah...I think I’m ready,” he said with a sigh; turning to face his old friend who stood on the quartz stairs of the gigantic house before him. “It’s just, y’know, it’s been so long.”

Sam hummed in agreement, before turning to continue up the steps.

“Come,” he said. “Wilbur is gonna be thrilled to see you.”

So, Sam led him up the steps of the quartz building and through the front doors. The area was ginormous; ceilings stretched far above Phil’s head, tall bookcases were lit by a chandelier of soft glowstone and flickering lanterns, and another flag hung suspended from the ceiling. The windows that stretched towards the roof filled the room with the soft orange glow of the sunset, and it felt warm against Phil’s skin.

Sam led him towards the back of the room where two more guards stood--netherite clicking off the marble floorings. He smirked as Phil stared in awe at the architecture around him; proud of his work. He quickly exchanged a greeting with the soldiers before he was granted access, and Phil was led down another tall hallway lined with doors. Most of them were unlabeled, but Phil swallowed heavily as he passed a door with a piece of paper hastily taped onto it, reading in all caps;  _ Tommy’s Room: keep out. _

This was actually happening.

At the end of the hallway was a final set of double doors, with glass windows on either side leading into the room. Small flashes of a blue uniform could be seen through the glass as an unknown figure paced the room inside. Each time Phil caught sight of a new detail that made his heart skip. Brown, curly hair. The dark beanie. The hand brought up to the chin. The messy desk piled with all sorts of books and papers--and not a single weapon or piece of armor in sight.

This couldn’t be real.

Sam stopped a few feet from the door, holding a hand up to stop Phil before he could walk directly into it.

“I’ll go tell him,” he said. “Wait out here.”

Phil could only manage a nod, his heart thudding wildly in his chest as he took his hat off to fidget with. He cleared his throat, averting his gaze as he backed up a step, “of course.”

Was he dreaming?

Sam opened the doors with a resounding click, and quickly closed the door behind him as Phil held his breath. The Avian’s heart was stuck in his throat as he watched Sam approach the figure, who had since stopped pacing. Their silhouettes were haloed by the sun setting in the room’s windows behind them, but Phil could still make out how the figure’s head turned to look at him through the narrow window.

He pursed his lips, and shifted his weight from one foot to the next.

The figure took a step forward. Then another. Before he ran to the door and whipped it open.

Brown eyes blinked around the room before landing on Phil awkwardly standing a little further down the hallway, and Wilbur’s eyes widened as he found himself speechless and slack-jawed. In that moment, Phil saw a ghost of the boy’s mother staring back at him, but it was gone before he even realized it.

This was real.

_ He  _ was real.

Phil stood there, staring. Attempting to decipher whether or not this had all just been one long, vivid dream. 

They stood there staring at each other in stunned shock as their thoughts caught up to them. There were so many things they wanted to say in that moment, so many things that ran through their minds, but still no words came out.

It was a long moment before Wilbur was the first to break the silence, and still the only thing he managed to say was a simple, “you came.”

Phil swallowed heavily, before choking out an equally shocked, “I did.”

Wilbur took another step, his hands sliding from the dark oak doors before he nearly stumbled forwards and engulfed Phil in a tight embrace.

Phil stumbled back a few steps, dropping his hat as he quickly returned the hug--holding on as if the second he let go his son would vanish from his fingertips.

“What the hell took you so long?” Wilbur laughed exasperatedly, the first to break the hug as he squeezed his father’s shoulders, “it’s been almost six months since I sent that invite! We thought you finally went and died or some shit.”

“Ah, well, you know me.” Phil chuckled, any anxiety he felt beforehand melting off his shoulders. “Haven’t exactly been home to check the mail in a while.”

“Of course, of course. I’m just happy you came.” Wilbur smiled, before walking back down the hallway and becoming Phil to follow. “Come, come...I’ll give you a tour.”

As Wilbur rushed off leaving his father to catch up; Phil caught a flash of the single black tally mark on his son’s neck where three once stood--the marking just barely concealed by the collar of his uniform. He thought nothing of it at that moment, chalking it up to his nerves just making him see things, before following his son back down the hallway.

✧✧✧

Phil followed closely behind Wilbur as he took him around the White House, greeting any guards they passed along the way. Any weariness Wilbur displayed when he first burst through the door had dissipated completely as the pair slipped effortlessly into casual conversation, like the years they spent apart had never even happened, and the fights that led up to their inevitable separation were nothing but water under the bridge.

As they walked through the hallways of the White House Wilbur showed him around the premises, through the overwhelming amount of libraries and giant rooms. Sam made the occasional remark about the architecture he had planned out and worked on with his crew, but otherwise stayed silent and alert as he escorted him and the president around the house before splitting off to conduct his final patrol around the walls for the night.

“There’s still some renovations happening along the part of the building that’s open to the public, but other than that the majority of this side belongs to us.” Wilbur explained as Phil flipped through an old book he picked off the shelves. “The construction has been placed on hold while we prepare for the first election, unfortunately.”

“And you’re running all of this yourself?” Phil asked, placing the book back up on his shelf. “Must be stressful.”

“Sure it is. Not nearly as stressful now that we’ve got he-who-must-not-be-named off our asses, though.” Wilbur sighed, running a hand back through his hair as he leaned against another bookshelf. “I’m just grateful we’ve finally got what we’ve worked so hard for. We can trade potions and enchantments all we want--we even have a community nether portal set up just behind the White House so people can gather supplies. The only thing we have to worry about is keeping infected pigmen from getting loose into the city.”

Philza chuckled, “I get the feeling this has happened already?”

Wilbur snorted, shaking his head, “Tommy and the nether never mix well, I’m sure you know that better than anybody.”

Phil hummed, remembering fondly just how the young blond would always find a way to get himself in trouble in one way or another. “So who’s this election against?”

Wilbur bit the inside of his cheek, looking away for a moment. 

Philza raised an eyebrow at his sudden uncharacteristic uneasiness, and stood to his feet.

“It’s uh…” Wilbur cleared his throat, but before he could answer the sound of something being dropped echoed down the hall, closely followed by a sudden boisterous;

“HOLY SHIT!”

Phil turned abruptly to the sound of fast footsteps against the flooring only to get nearly tackled into a hug. The older man yelped and stumbled backwards, wings flailing in surprise before he immediately recognized the head of blond, unruly hair that had landed against him.

“Tommy! You little shit!” Philza laughed, returning the hug immediately and ruffling the teenager’s hair, “I was wondering where the hell you were.”

“You’re here!” Tommy laughed, “I can’t believe it! Why--why are you here?”

“Thought it was about time I stopped by,” Phil answered, before more movement at the hallway prompted him to look up. 

A brunet boy stiffened as he was caught before he could finish picking up the load of paperwork Tommy had dropped during his dash to greet his father. A single goat-like ear twitched as he stood awkwardly to his feet--dawning the same blue and white uniform both Tommy and Wilbur wore.

“Hello, mate,” Phil smiled, standing to his full height again. “And who might you be?”

“That’s Tubbo, he’s part of our cabinet,” Tommy answered quickly, before gesturing to Phil, “Big T, Phil. Phil, Big T.”

“Oh! So  _ you’re  _ the guy Tommy constantly talks about missing!” Tubbo quickly rushed forwards, sticking his hand out for Phil to shake. “Nice to finally meet you, sir.”

Tommy nearly gasped, his face flushed with embarrassment. “I  _ do not!” _

“Oh, sure! Not like you started an entire war over the discs he gave you or anything.”

“Well--” Tommy pointed an accusing finger in Tubbo’s direction. “As the vice president and therefore  _ your  _ superior I order you to shut the fuck up, bitch _.” _

“Oh yeah?” Tubbo laughed, “and what are you gonna do if I don’t? Arrest me? My father won’t be too pleased with you.”

“No offense,  _ Tobias,  _ but your father  _ literally  _ eats his own fuckin’ paperwork.”

“Alright, you fucks. That’s enough.” Wilbur let out a defeated sigh as he placed a hand on Tommy’s shoulder. “Why don’t you go off and see where Sam’s run off to? You’ve both done enough work for today; and we have a lot of catching up to do.”

Tubbo immediately ran off, “race you there!”

“Hey! What are you, nine years old?!”

The two teenagers rushed off, shoving each other and laughing as they bolted back down the hallway to find their security guard friend. Phil smiled as he watched them go; and let out a breath. “He still hasn’t changed a bit.”

Wilbur’s face fell. “I know, I’m suspecting he took after you.”

“What’s that mean?”

“It means he,  _ literally _ , hasn’t changed a bit,” Wilbur remarked. “In fact, I don’t think he’s aged since a few years after you left, if I’m being entirely honest.”

Phil’s eyes widened at his son’s implications, and he whipped his head around; slack-jawed. His heart thudded slightly in his chest at this new information.

Phil had long since accepted the fact that neither of his sons processed Avian blood. It took some time for him to adjust to after so many years of daydreaming about the day he’d show his own children to fly and teach them about his people. But, instead, he was forced to accept the fact that he was the last of his kind remaining.

Phil would know, for he technically hadn’t aged a day since he turned thirty-two years old.

And now, it would seem that Tommy was cursed with the same fate.

A part of him was thrilled, but a bigger part of him mourned the fact that due to Phil having only one life left to spare--Tommy would certainly be left on his own at some point. For now, all he could hope was that that day wouldn’t come anytime soon.

But he shook those thoughts from his head, along with any other negativity that threatened to spill over. He found his smile again as he snorted, “that boy takes entirely too fucking much after me--it’s almost worrying.”

Wilbur barked a laugh, “I suppose so.”

✧✧✧

“So I take the discs--right--and I start fuckin’ booking it like my life depended on it. I must have ran the entire length of L’Manberg and the SMP a hundred times over, and Dream was still right on my tail!” Tommy exclaimed, throwing his arms up for dramatic effect, “and so I keep running, and Tubbo is running back to his house to get obsidian for an enderchest, and I’m running so long that my vision turns black around the edges and I can’t breath, y’know? The hardest I’ve ever run from anything in my life. But then I circle back around at the very last minute and throw my discs in the enderchest.”

“--That I made!” Tubbo added with a proud grin.

“That he made.” Tommy finished.

“You fucking didn’t,” Philza laughed. “You’re exaggerating, there’s no way  _ you  _ outran  _ Dream _ .”

“I’m not, though!” He insisted, “it’s in the history books and everything!”

“He’s right.” Wilbur butted in from the doorway as he entered the dining room, “little asshole went to hell and back to keep those discs safe.”

Something small flickered in Phil’s chest. “Well?” he said, leaning back in his seat, “you said you got them back, yeah? Let’s listen to them then.”

Tommy visibly cringed, and exchanged a look with Tubbo, “we uh...we lost them again, actually. Before the war. We’re gonna go get them again after the election, now that we have an army and everything.”

The sound of Wilbur mindlessly plucking the strings of his old guitar filled the momentary silence that passed, and the fire at the other side of the dining room snapped and crackled in the hearth. Phil had lost track of how long he had been sitting there with the group, sharing stories of his travels and listening to what exactly they had been up to in the past few years. Before Phil knew it, minutes stretched into hours of laughing and carrying on until the tea Wilbur had given him had long gone cold.

“But you’re gonna get them back.” Phil encouraged, “I’ve heard all kinds of shit about people spotting Dream in the woods and cities--he’s definitely not gone.”

“Oh, we’re absolutely gonna get them back,” Tubbo piped up, “even if something happens and you guys do lose the election, my father will make sure of it.”

Tommy scoffed, crossing his arms. “Yeah, right. I think Schlatt would sooner join Dream than fight him.” 

Tubbo looked offended, “dad would  _ never  _ do that! You just don’t wanna admit that he might actually be a decent leader.”

Phil chuckled at the teenagers’ banter, changing the subject before it led to an actual argument. “Alright, so, after you got the discs back...what happened next?”

“Well, Wilbur got me into potion-making.” Tommy beamed, happy to continue on with the story. “We did it in secret in this tiny house, and started selling them. Dream eventually caught onto it and we were in deep shit for a bit. It was...kinda a whole mess.”

“But then Wilbur gathered an army!” Tubbo butted in.

“And then there was this  _ huge  _ fight at L’Manberg and everything and Eret betrayed us and it--it was a whole shitshow. We won in the end, though. All thanks to me.” Tommy smiled, stumbling over his words as if to purposefully leave out details.

“Eret?” Phil pressed, leaning forwards against the table, “as in... _ King  _ Eret?”

“Yes!!” Tommy threw his hands up again, “Can you believe it? They were one of the most valuable members of our cabinet and they just up and fucking--OW! Wilbur, what the hell?!”

Wilbur sent his brother a stern look, and mouthed something akin to, “remember what we talked about.”

“Why not? He just wants to hear the story!” Tommy said back, “we can’t just not tell him what happened back there.”

“What happened?” Phil asked, the curiosity in his tone replaced with concern.

Tommy sank slightly into his chair, averting his gaze. A hushed silence fell over the table as no one dared to speak up. Wilbur relinquished his glare at his brother, muttering out a quiet, “nothing you need to worry about.”

“No--please,” Phil gestured to Tommy, “continue. Eret betrayed you and then what?”

Tommy suddenly looked uneasy. He looked to Sam--who stood awkwardly guarding the door--then to Tubbo, before finally turning to a stern-looking Wilbur. He pursed his lips, and Phil sat up a little straighter; dread pulling at his chest.

“We all lost a life.” Tommy said quickly, looking down. “Eret led us all into a room and they...they blew it up while we were still inside.”

A heavy silence fell over the table, and Phil’s heart dropped. His wings flared a little as he processed the information just given to him, and his gaze flew to the man at the head of the table--who had since set his guitar down.

“We’re both on our last lives.” Tommy finished, gesturing to Wilbur. “...sorry.”

The color steadily drained from Phil’s face.

The Avian was no stranger to the impending dread that came with having only one life left. Since the people of their world had three lives; it made death feel like a distant future--something that wasn’t an immediate threat and wasn’t a first priority.

It was only when Phil lost his second life in his early years that he realized that death was real and the very thought of it was  _ terrifying.  _ He lived to avoid conflict and fighting, petrified of the day he might lose it. __ It hit him hard after Wilbur was born that he wanted his sons to be prepared for the world around them, and after that he taught them both the necessities of survival the second they were old enough. He made sure that each of them knew the dangers of the world around him and that one wrong slip-up at any point could end in complete disaster. He taught his children to value their lives; to protect them at all costs, and not to waste them just to get the pain of fighting over with.

Because the one thing he feared more than death itself was losing anymore of the people he cared about.

“Wilbur,” he said, “a word, please.”

And just like that, what was once water under the bridge began to bubble back up and flood the shores--unearthing crops planted and washing away any hope of them ever returning to a happy, normal family for the rest of that evening. Wilbur swallowed his emotions and stood to his feet, nodding to Sam as he moved the guitar back to its place above the hearth.

Sam raised an eyebrow, confused at the sudden shift in mood as Phil followed Wilbur back out of the dining room and towards his study from which they originally met. Moonlight cast a pale glow over the towering bookshelves, illuminating the tiny dust particles that flowed throughout the empty, quiet space. Chandeliers sparkled in the moonlight and surrounding city lights, and a quick glance outside at the clouds gathering just on the horizon hinted on one of the last summer storms to come.

“The view is usually better when it’s not as cloudy,” Wilbur remarked, hands positioned behind his back as he stared out one of the tall windows. “Usually, this spot gives the best view of the moon in the country.”

Phil was silent for a moment, watching Wilbur’s notably more tired-looking gaze sweep the landscape outside. Phil heard the beginnings of rain begin to tap against the windows with the coming storm, abnormally loud against the quiet of the vast room.

“You never mentioned losing lives to this war in your letter.” Phil began, his voice solemn. “You didn’t mention that you dragged Tommy into this, either.”

“It’s war. Lives are lost, people are killed. Violence is sometimes the only answer.”

“Yeah,” Phil stepped forwards, “but that doesn’t mean you should drag innocent people into it, mate. That doesn’t mean you should turn careless.”

A short silence fell over the two men once again, heavy with tension.

“Wilbur…” Phil began again, but his sentence fell short with a sigh. The question had sat heavy on his tongue since the second he reunited with Wilbur resurfaced once more, and now he wasn’t sure he wanted to know the answer. He didn’t want to know, but he knew that he had to.

So, heart thudding in his chest and wings tense at his back; he finally asked, “why did you run away?”

Wilbur was silent for a long time. Something flashed in his expression for a fraction of a second--perhaps regret, maybe with a dash of anger or sadness with it. He took a heavy breath, and still refused to meet his father’s gaze as he turned and walked to the desk towards the other end of the room. His leather boots clicked off the floors as he walked, echoing into the distant hallways.

“We couldn’t stay there forever, you know.”

“But you took Tommy with you?” Phil pressed, “you roped him into a war--a revolution--when he is only a child? You let him lose his  _ lives  _ to it, Wilbur?”

“He wanted to come--”

“Because  _ you  _ wanted to  _ go,  _ mate.” Phil insisted, “you’re his older brother, for fuck’s sake. Not your coworker. He looked up to you, so of course he’d follow you. And I know you knew that.”

“And what good would staying have done us?” Wilbur turned around abruptly, his voice raising. “What good would come out of staying in a house alone while you went off on another one of your little expeditions, hm? We couldn’t--we couldn’t stay there forever while you went out and explored the world, you know this. We wanted to leave the past behind us and start over--just like you did.”

“I was going to come back.” Phil said through a clenched jaw. “You know I always come back.”

“Then why didn’t you tell us  _ when?”  _ Wilbur’s voice cracked, “why did you leave us for  _ three weeks  _ without even a letter’s notice? Why did you leave  _ me  _ to take care of Tommy after mom died, Phil? Why didn’t you come looking for us if you had actually cared?”

A flash of lighting lit up the window, followed closely by the far-off sound of thunder rumbling across the sky.

“Oh, wait, I do know why.” Wilbur chuckled humorlessly as he stopped his pacing to turn to his father. “It’s because it’s my fault mom died, isn’t it?”

Phil visibly flinched, his wings flaring in shock at Wilbur. His heart seemed to stop for a moment, and he found himself unable to speak as he just stood there--staring. The words were stuck in his chest--years of festering guilt and regret bubbling up to the surface.

“You left us, Phil.” Wilbur said, after taking a breath to keep himself under control. “You left us, and we had nothing left. We wanted to start a new life where we were  _ free  _ and  _ happy. _ That is why we ran away.”

The rain was pouring against the windows now, filling the room with the almost calming sound of static. A knock sounded at the door at the far end of the room, and Sam poked his head through the doors.

“Sir, a gang of Schlatt supporters are rioting downtown--”

Wilbur sighed once again; long, heavy, shaky, and weary. His demeanor quickly switched back to the same stoic mask he took on when he first entered the room. He answered calmly, “send some of the royal guard down right away; it’s time we taught those people a lesson.”

“But--”

“Just do it, Sam.”

Sam nodded, reluctantly, before stepping back out of the room--Phil turned his attention back to Wilbur as he turned away once more. Phil opened his mouth to speak, reaching his hand out to his son one final time.

“Get out of my sight, Phil.” Wilbur spat before he could, holding a hand up to stop him in his tracks. “Alex will see you out.”

“Wilbur, please let me explain--”

“I said get out!”

The shout echoed a million times throughout the room. Bounced over the bookshelves, rung the chandeliers, silenced the rain for a moment, and completely shattered Phil’s heart. His wings drooped, and his hat fell over his eyes. Thunder rolled again in the sky above the White House, low and threatening.

“Fine. I’ll leave.” Phil finally choked out, “but only if you promise me you’ll stop all this before it gets to your head. All this fighting--all this new power you have--it’s going to slip through your fingers. I’ve seen it happen. You may think you’ve stopped the conflict; but this country is only going to cause more problems than you think it will solve.”

Wilbur didn’t bother to face Phil as he looked up from where he stood. His voice sent a final, serrated arrowhead through Phil’s aching heart as he commanded,  _ “don’t  _ call me son, Phil.”

Phil stood for only a moment longer. His heart hammered in his chest. He wanted to reach out, sit Wilbur down and talk about everything. He wanted to make things right again. He had just gotten his son back; and he messed things up once more.

Wilbur was right--after all. He’d promised to keep them safe, to teach them to protect each other and themselves, and he failed the moment he stepped out of his house and flew off, overcome by his own grief over the death of his wife. He couldn’t face his sons after what had happened; he had blamed himself for years. He thought that they had run away because he hated him.

But Wilbur had blamed himself this whole time.

Phil failed them, and he owed it to them to leave them to their own happiness.

So he shifted and turned--his iron boots echoing back down the empty hallways. His footsteps eventually faded with the slam of a heavy door, acting as a final farewell; and Wilbur was left alone to stare down at piles upon piles of documents and treaties with other nations that still needed signing. 

He couldn’t bring himself to look at any of them, and instead shoved the pile off his desk with a resounding  _ thud  _ and a shower of paper over his study. He stormed over and left in the opposite direction Phil had come, before grabbing his coat and leaving to take care of whatever riot had broken out within his country.

The same riot Phil passed with a heavy heart and soaked clothes as he tugged at his horse’s reins and disappeared into the night, never to visit that country on friendly terms again.


	2. The House in the Snow

Over the course of the few weeks that passed afterward--Phil kept himself occupied with his travels. His house lay almost untouched in the cold tundra as he barely returned to it unless to drop off some of the rarer items he had received or to sleep in an actual bed for a night, before he launched right back off into exploring everything from sand temples to old, forgotten villages. 

His house was nothing fancy; small and fit for someone who never spent too long in one place. He had only really felt like he needed once when he finally settled down to start a family, but now it just lay frosted over as the cold took hold of the wood and the windows. He enjoyed the quiet it gave off, though, even if the sound of the wind tossing the lantern on his front porch gently against the wooden walls kept him up at night with nostalgic dreams.

Phil returned to his house directly after his visit to L’Manberg, far too thoroughly exhausted from riding on horseback without rest for almost a week to do much of anything else. He slept for nearly two days, restocked his firewood, gathered more diamonds, tools, food, resources--before he finally allowed himself to sit down and think. He returned to his study and immediately pulled out some dusty piece of yellowed paper, a feather, and an ink well.

He tapped the edge of the feather against the edge of his desk, mindlessly glancing up and out of his window as he tried to recall what exactly had possessed him to think writing was the thing he should do to relax. Not even in his journals, just…

On the paper he set aside for letters.

His eyes glanced up past the bookshelves to his right, to where the pale sunlight that leaked in through his window glinted against that of a diamond sword mounted on the wall. He blinked at it, a sudden thought occurring to him.

He sighed heavily, biting at the inside of his cheek as he scribbled down the beginning of the letter.

_ Dear Tommy, _

He hesitated again--wondering whether or not this would just be a waste of time; obviously any letters that passed in the mail had to go through some sort of security, and the more he thought about it the more he realized the chance of the letter getting to Tommy was slim. He scoffed to himself, and set the fountain pen back down.

_ Sam. _

Sam could deliver the paper. He was Tommy’s bodyguard--right? 

At this newfound realization, Phil pressed the pen to the paper and began to write again.

_ There’s a big chance this letter won’t be approved for you to see--but I figured I would give it a shot anyway. I don’t know if Wilbur told you, or if you were eavesdropping--but it doesn’t matter. It’s my fault this all happened. It’s my fault that I wasn’t there for you, and I’m going to make it up to both of you. I promise. _

A water droplet fell onto the paper, closely followed by two more. Phil wiped his face, cursing himself for getting emotional--he could cry later, right now he needed to finish this while it was fresh in his mind. Grieving over what happened wasn’t going to get him anywhere.

So, he finished off the letter with a request.

_ You don’t have to write back. You don’t have to acknowledge you ever saw this letter. You can throw it out afterward and forget all about me if you think that would help. But I just want you to keep an eye on your brother for me. You’re the only one who can stop him from himself if worst comes to worst, I trust that you can talk him down if he comes to any irrational decisions. _

He took a breath, dipping a shaking hand back into the ink. The pen hesitated over the paper as his hands suddenly felt like they mine-as-well be made of stone. He knew that he owed it to him to leave them be--to let them live their lives because he was no longer part of it. He thought back on the day he read that invitation from Wilbur to visit L’manberg; remembering the pure shock that overcame him. He remembered how the moment he realized how the letter was nearly six months old, he immediately packed up everything and left to see his sons--his last remaining family.

And now this was it.

He was closing the book to another chapter of his life, soon to be lost in time just like much of his oldest memories.

So, with a heavy, aching heart; he ended the letter briefly.

_ I’ll miss you. _

_ I hope this letter finds you well, _

_ Philza. _

That same letter sat at the bottom of his bag as he rode his horse through the village he often visited for mail, located in a desert a few days’ travel north of his house in the frozen tundra, and just south of the L’Manberg walls. He wiped the sweat from his brow as he pulled his hat further down over his eyes, spotting the array of mailboxes located just outside the village’s post office.

He waved to the many familiar passerbys--who replied back in different variations of the same small ‘hm’ sound and a smile as they milled about their business, tending to farms and making weapons. Phil had come to a vague understanding of their language during his time studying the villagers of the area--mostly through a shit ton of trial and error and sheer willpower to prove that he could. Of course, this did lead him to getting driven out of quite a few villages in his time; but it was worth it.

He approached the post office and was immediately spotted by its desk manager, who huffed out a greeting at the familiar face.

Phil smiled, and nodded a hello, before handing the letter in with a single shimmering emerald.

The villager looked up at him, and shook his head, holding out a hand for more emeralds. Phil raised an eyebrow.

Who could possibly have come the whole way out here--far enough away from any civilization that it could likely still be considered unexplored terrain--and raised the villager’s prices?

Quite significantly too, considering it took four more emeralds for the villager to even consider delivering the letter. Phil let out a small exasperated breath as he finally took the envelope out of his hands, but he figured it would keep him up at night if he didn’t try and ask.

_ “Did anyone else come through here?”  _ Phil grunted out.

The villager exchanged a look towards his housemate who had just finished storing the emeralds away in a chest. They seemed to whisper to each other for a moment, before he replied with a vague,  _ “yes.” _

_ “Who?” _

_ “Pigman.” _

Now he was even more confused. He looked around for a nether portal, giving the villager the benefit of the doubt, only to see that there still wasn’t any around. How the hell would a creature of the nether get all the way out here, much less speak the same language as the villagers and know how to trade with them?

Phil chalked it up to miscommunication, and cleared his throat before chirping out,  _ “pardon?” _

The villager jabbed its head to Phil’s right, and the avian turned his gaze to catch the smallest trace of a red cape as it disappeared around the corner. It caught him off guard momentarily--and for a moment he considered the fact that, maybe, this area wasn’t as deserted as he thought. He looked back to the post office worker, who held an expression that almost displayed amusement at the foreigner’s reaction.

_ “Pigman.”  _ He repeated, before disappearing into his house.

✧✧✧

Wilbur lost the election.

The news exploded into the world like a wildfire; spreading through villages, over oceans, past obsidian walls and crossing the world in a matter of days. Signs and newspapers seemed to follow Phil like a permanent reminder, as if the world itself was mocking him for his failures, adding insult to injury. 

At first, he actively avoided them. He ignored every passing whisper and the uproar of protests on the streets of every town or city he passed through; and the sound of his son’s name passing across people’s lips hurt him less and less every time as weeks turned to a month and the electron grew nearer. Things grew silent again for a day as the election took place--and then suddenly Wilbur was the only thing everyone talked about again.

Phil stared up at the many news articles stapled to trees and village news boards; his burning curiosity overtaking him as he scanned over the headlines that were already beginning to wash away with the coming rain.

_ “Citizens turn on L’manberg president; the great walls finally come down” _

_ “J. Schlatt and Alexis Quackity elected president and vice president of L’manberg” _

_ “Wilbur Soot and Tommy Innit exiled from L’manberg; what happens next?” _

Phil carefully tore one of the posters off its spot nailed to the tree, before blinking down at it in a stunned haze. He knew this would happen. He fucking called it.

A single raindrop fell from the sky directly onto the picture of Wilbur’s face on the paper, quickly followed by others as Phil just stood there--staring. He stared at it until his clothes were soaked and his horse whickered with concern. It snorted through its nose, nibbling at the paper in Wilbur’s hands, almost as if the horse recognized the man.

“I know, Carl.” Phil said off-handedly to the horse, patting the side of his head as he let out a sigh of defeat, “I know.”

He crumpled up the paper and discarded it on the sidewalk before he pulled the hood of his black cloak up over his head and fixed it to cover his wings completely. He then mounted the horse again and rode off to find someplace to wait out the rain.

It was that same night that Phil lay awake in a hotel, staring at the wood of the ceiling as he listened to the rain hit the glass of the window next to him. A candle flickered to his right as he tried desperately to get comfortable on the small bed with his wings.

Note to self; start sleeping in trees.

The tiny bed wasn’t worth the six emeralds.

Phil cursed in defeat, eventually rolling over and sitting upright with a yawn. He stretched his wings out as much as he could in the small room, and they ached with stiffness in response. He didn’t use his wings nearly as much as he used to; the thrill of flying slowly becominh just one of the fonder memories in his younger years. He remembered all the contests and championships his wings have gotten him through, all the battles he had won, all the ancient awards that sat dormant at his house for highest build competitions and races--all lost to time as new champions rose and took his place. He remembered the amazed curses that left Tommy’s mouth when he threw his hands up into the air, the hair flying back and away from his face as he reached up to try and touch the clouds. He remembered how the kids would both tug at the feathers on his wings to wake him up in the morning, or try and climb them to get his attention. He remembered how flying at sunset would lull Wilbur to sleep when nothing else would--

Philza shook the thoughts from his head.

No. Shut up. Stop it.

He let out a weary sigh and moved a black wing around himself to preen. He gently raked his hand through the soft feathers, ridding them of any dirt or dust that had collected in them during that day’s journey. Yeah, sure, his wings were big and clumsy and a lot of the time a nuisance--and useless now that he only had one life and couldn’t risk dying--but he didn’t know what he’d do if he ended up losing him.

Phil continued with this until his eyelids began to droop again, his head lulling and his hands slowing to a stop. He fell back against the blankets and raced the raindrops against the window, trying not to think as he slowly drifted off into a light slumber.

Until a scream echoed throughout the village, closely followed by the crash of a weapon splitting planks.

Phil bolted upright and rushed to his window just in time to see two dark figures dash across, closely followed by people turning their lights on and stepping outside to see what all the ruckus was about. He watched as the enigmas danced around each other, one wielding shimmering diamond armor and a slightly scuffed-looking iron sword while the other--holy shit.

Phil squinted, and thought his eyes were for sure deceiving him for a moment.

The other man stood to be at least seven feet tall--his figure silhouetted against the darkness. His enchanted armor gave off a faint purple glow, but as Phil watched carefully he saw a trident glint as it flashed across his field of vision before getting lodged in the wood, mere inches from the man’s opponent as it pinned his white bandana to the house.

Phil rushed to grab his sword and slip on his netherite in record time, before stumbling out the door and into the pouring rain--glancing around wildly for where the fight was taking place. He whipped around just in time to see the one in enchanted armor use a trident to launch himself over the roof and scramble over the hotel.

“If you take him down you’ll be famous!”

“Yeah that’s right! Get out of our village!”

“Fuck him up, Sap!”

The man with the iron sword followed his opponent quickly, but more clumsily. The gathering crowd uproared in cheers. Metal clashed against metal as people scrambled to get a better look at the squabble, and rain began to pour down around them.

“What the hell is going on?” Phil shouted.

“Some guy turned up at the village and threatened Sap!” A woman answered, before turning to run back into the crowd, “he said he’s gonna burn down the village if he doesn’t comply!”

Well, this was certainly interesting.

Phil cursed and ran to the hotel’s stables before quickly grabbing Carl and rushing off towards the fight. People gathered around the town’s center, cheering the pair on as they continued dodging and weaving around each other. The man dressed in white and black--who Phil assumed was Sap--was quick on his feet, jumping out of the way and evading attacks with careful precision. He was losing, but still grinning with the thrill of a fight as he blew black bangs from his face and continued to weave his way around his attacker.

His opponent, however, had everyone on edge.

Phil watched from a safe distance, but listened into everyone’s chatter. The whispers were for the most part unintelligible, but he did catch a few syllables of a name that made his heart lurch in his chest. A name that instinctually sent a hand flying to the hilt of his sword.

Technoblade.

This man, in iron armor, was fighting fucking  _ Technoblade. _

Phil had never met him much less did he ever see his face, but he was a name commonly uttered amongst the people in surrounding kingdoms--and very rarely seen unless you have the misfortune of meeting him on the battlefield. Every few years he’d pop up, terrify some form of government, and then disappear. He was known for striking deals to tear down kingdoms, conspiring against any and all leaders and slaying thousands without so much as a thought. He was feared just as, if not more, than Dream himself. 

In the blink of an eye, the trident shot over Philza’s head and he ducked. People yelled out in shock as the weapon disappeared into the forest behind them, before whipping around to see Technoblade stiffen as his trusted weapon disappeared into the forest.

Oh shit.

Sap laughed, and lunged towards his opponent--tackling him to the ground. Technoblade fell backwards with a grunt, the back of his head hitting a tree as a golden crown clattered to the ground. It rolled across the mud and landed at Phil’s feet, shimmering in the low light. Sap pressed his iron sword to the hooded anarchist’s neck, pinning him to the ground.

“Looks like you’ve run out of tricks up your sleeves, pig.” He huffed out, turning the blade to draw a bead of blood from Technoblade’s neck. “Dream’s gonna get  _ such  _ a kick outta this.”

Technoblade didn’t seem phased in the slightest. Phil couldn’t see the stranger’s expression through his red hood, but he could hear the low chuckle that rose from his throat followed by a strained, “I wouldn’t be so sure about that.”

“What do you--” Sap interrupted himself with a cry of pain, and he scrambled backwards from his opponent, shaky hands flying to his stomach and grasping a golden dagger that stained his white shirt a bright, crimson red. 

“You’re funny, you’re  _ hilarious  _ if you think you could just sneak up on me unprepared and expect to win!” The piglin laughed, “do better next time, I’ll be waitin’.”

Technoblade launched to his feet and jumped up onto a townhouse roof, his cape fluttering as he landed somewhere down into the forest. Another loud laugh echoed across the buildings and over the uproar of the crowd as he disappeared, red wisps of a strength potion trailing in his wake. People rushed to follow him while others ran to the bleeding soldier’s side.

Philza picked up the crown at his feet, and brushed some of the dirt off with the sleeve of his tunic. Red jewels sparkled in the low lighting, accented with intricate carvings on the golden headpiece. He looked back up to the direction he saw the fugitive run off to, before hiding the crown within his jacket--his heart pounding in his chest.

The next morning, Phil took it upon himself to follow the stranger.

It was pretty easy to find exactly which direction Technoblade had run off to, simply following the footprints left in the mud of the thick spruce forests of the mob that had run after him the night before. A fog lay over the ground, and raindrops periodically fell from the trees--tapping against the rim of Phil’s hat and collecting on the feathers of his wings. Birds fluttered from tree to tree, preparing for the winter to come as they sensed the growing chill in the air. A fox and its two pups skittered across the path before disappearing into the brush.

The amount of footprints on the forest floor started to dwindle in frequency before only one pair of boot prints remained, ragged and uneven and deeper into the mud than the others. If Phil looked closely, he could see dark bits of blood mixed in with the gravel.

He continued to follow them as they strayed away from the path, and he soon began to wonder what exactly had driven him to look for the most feared man on this Earth.

Was it curiosity? Likely, but the fast beating of Philza’s heart and his white-knuckled grip on Carl’s lead proved otherwise.

Maybe obligation? He did want to return the crown to his rightful owner, after all. It didn’t feel right to keep it--even if it did hold a lot of historical value and would probably sell for more emeralds than he could possibly imagine.

What would he even say if by some lucky chance he even found the man? ‘Hey, I know you just got chased by me and like a fuckton of other people, and you probably know me already due to my son being a tyrant--but you dropped this. Please don’t stab me. Or follow me. Or have me ambushed and executed. Nice knowing ya ’

He cursed his own impulsiveness. This was stupid.

When he tugged on Carl’s reins, however, the horse only snorted and shook its head in response before continuing on a stubborn path towards where the footsteps stumbled off into a bush.

Carl finally stopped in front of it, and Phil found himself in a shocked standstill.

“I am  _ not  _ going after that fucker.” He said to no one in particular, “there’s no way in hell you can make me go in there.”

Carl shook his head again, shifting as if moving to buck Phil off.

“Wha--hey hey hey stop it he’ll hear us!” He whispered, rushing to try and silence the horse--who snorted with a growing aggravation before going to buck again.

Without much of a choice, Phil slid off. “Fuckin’...fine. You’ve convinced me.” 

He sighed, and moved to the bushes. Careful to avoid all the pricks and thorns that littered the underbrush, he gently forced the branches apart to reveal a small, empty clearing behind them. He turned back to the curious horse, “see? There’s nothing here. The guy just vanished.”

Carl whinnied, exasperated.

“Well, if you’re so pressed about it how about you go find him yourself?”

With what almost appeared to be a deadpan, the horse shoved Phil aside to wonder into the clearing. The avian stumbled after him, watching as his horse went straight to the trees and stopped by a stream.

Phil blinked. Was this really happening?

Carl rose his head and neighed once more, bucking his head towards something near the ditch. Phil hesitantly got up to follow him, becoming more careful with his footsteps. His eyes widened at what he found, and his feathers ruffled in panic as he was frozen to where he was knelt.

Technoblade was right there. The man responsible for the death of hundreds of people was  _ right there.  _ His horse was nosing at the cape of the unconscious anarchist who was still breathing and still alive and  _ right fucking there. _

He lay with his back propped up against a tree and his legs sprawled out before him. Two ears stood up from his head from where a crown once lay--dotted with gold jewelry. His snout was littered with scars and two tusks framed his mouth and nose. He stirred in his sleep, occasionally huffing out a breath through his nose that stirred the leaves hanging above him. He had an uncanny resemblance to the piglin in the nether Phil had studied for years--but he was still, obviously, a hybrid.

Philza tilted his head, slowly inching through the bushes to try and get a better look. Technoblade still had an uncanny human-ness about him; his hands, though notably huge, were more human and his eyes were shaped differently. Phil fought his natural instincts to walk right up to the unconscious piglin and study him--knowing he would be dead before he had the chance to pull out his notebook.

Philza couldn’t believe his eyes as Carl continued to coax the avian out of his spot in the bushes, and Phil’s hands shook as he slowly stood to his feet--sending a glare towards his horse in the process.

He swallowed as he approached, tilting his head as he tried to figure out what exactly to make of the stranger. Soon, he was standing right in front of Technoblade--and didn’t bare to even breath at the chance that the piglin might hear and wake up.

“Now what?” Phil whispered, “we can’t just leave ‘em here…”

Carl snorted in agreement, sending Phil a look.

“What? No, we’re not taking him back to the house.”

Carl whinnied again.

_ “No.” _

The horse bumped its head into Phil’s arm, and he swallowed before switching his gaze back to the unconscious stranger who stirred at the noise. Technoblade appeared to be a lot worse now that Phil could look at him up close, and dried blood was splattered against the tree behind him. Whether it was his or someone else’s, he wasn’t sure--but his enchanted armor was broken and covered in blood.

“Fine,” Phil decided, pointing an accusing finger at the horse. “But  _ you’re  _ carrying him back.”

The horse raised its head in a silent agreement, before Phil pursed his lips and turned back to the piglin with a heavy sigh. 

Well, time to get this over with.

✧✧✧

He was doing this.

He was actually housing a war criminal.

An immediate wave of regret washed over Phil as he shut the door of his room behind him, and slid down against the wood as all the fear he had been repressing finally caught up to him. He took a breath and ran a shaking, slightly-bloodied hand through his hair as he processed what he had just done.

So, he witnessed an assassin lose a life trying to finally kill off Technoblade with an iron sword.

Phil then proceeded to follow said criminal, get mildly peer pressured by a  _ goddamn horse,  _ before deciding to take him home and treat his wounds.

The blood god was in his house.

Holy shit. This was so stupid.

Phil’s hand raised to his mouth as he thought. Okay. Right. Maybe once he was awake he’d get up and leave on his own, yeah? That sounded reasonable.

That logic was enough to allow him to get at least some sleep in for the next few days. Every few hours he’d check up on Technoblade’s wounds--which were a lot worse than he had originally thought. In fact, the only reason he survived was probably because he still had strength potions in his system when Phil had found him.

Which was likely also why he still hadn’t woken up after almost a full day.

Potions were something Phil had taken a lot of time messing with over his years working with different materials he gathered in the nether, and his knowledge of them quickly became something he prided himself in. After years of trial and error Phil came to the conclusion that though the effects of potions were temporary, they had many long-term effects that oftentimes went unnoticed for those who used them.

Potions of weakness, poison, and nausea can linger in the person’s system for weeks as time if they are made to be particularly strong. Invisibility potions can cause irritation to the skin, night vision can cause migraines and worsen eyesight, and fire resistance raises body temperature. Energy is needed for someone to heal or press themselves to their limits; so potions like healing and strength require a lot of energy to be used--which was likely what kept Technoblade asleep for so long. Not-to-mention how the temporary highs of the potions can mess with one’s ability to think, which was generally why Phil tended to avoid using his own unless for a last resort. He had to dig through his supplies in order to find some doses of healing and regeneration--which he dabbed carefully onto Technoblade’s injuries to help with the healing process.

His wounds consisted of the usual things people often got after fighting off a night of monsters. A deep zombie bite was located on his right shoulder, and a few arrows were lodged in his back along with the one in his knee. If Phil hadn’t found him when he did--he would have without a doubt died out there in that forest.

But other than the occasional mutter in his sleep or slight flinch whenever Phil changed his bandages, the piglin stayed asleep as he worked. It was almost impressive.

Almost.

It wasn’t until night two that Phil sat alone in his study, a candle flickering at his side as he looked through his old research on piglins. He skimmed through his collection of journals kept tucked away under his desk before finally coming across one with a singed spine, labeled  _ “Project Pigstep.”  _ He let out a small cheer of relief when he found that he still had it, and pulled it out to add it to his small pile of journals consisting of similar titles.

The old journal pages had yellowed with age, and some of the pen ink smudged as he carefully skimmed through his notes and observations, adding some of the things he noticed and scratching out things that were wrong. He worked well into the night, until his candle had burnt to the end of its wick and his inkwell ran dry. Journals and papers were littered across his desk and he found himself dozing off. He didn’t realize it until his forehead hit the desk, and he bolted upright again just to kick over something at his feet.

Something hard and small clattered across the floor along with a few other assorted necessities for survival, some emeralds, and a few pieces of gold. Phil looked on in confusion as he bent down to pick everything up with a curse--before quickly realizing it was Technoblade’s bag he had kicked over.

He raised an eyebrow at the small, gold item now resting underneath one of his bookshelves across the room. His curiosity piqued, and he got up to retrieve it.

The small pendant was about the size of a coin, and was attached to a long, gold chain with a clasp at the end of it. The artifact shimmered with pure gold and had two little specs of emeralds for eyes. Even while holding it Phil felt an enchanted power vibrating through his fingertips, and he let out a breath as he held it up to the light to read the tiny inscriptions on the back.

As if on cue, a loud bump followed by a groan above Phil’s head signified that his friend had awakened, and he quickly threw the totem back into its rightful place in Technoblade’s bag along with the rest of his belongings. He froze as he listened in on any other possible noise, only to be met with a worrying silence.

“Hellooo?” He called out, “you okay up there?”

No reply. 

Phil swallowed heavily. He hummed, and he was careful as he rounded a corner and looked to the ladder up to the second floor. Still, all was quiet. The wind whistled against the house’s exterior in the darkness as he turned to grab a match and a spare lantern. He struck the match against its box and lit the lantern with hands that had long lost their shakiness.

Well, at least days of making sure this stranger didn’t bleed out on his bed made Phil’s justified fear of the man slowly vanish. Whatever was about to happen mine-as-well happen. He was probably one of the few people in this world that could possibly even take Technoblade on with a chance of winning, anyway.

Hopefully; he had enough decency not to slaughter the guy who saved his life. 

The ladder creaked as Phil ascended into the darkness of his room, and he held the yellow lantern above him as he peaked over the floor. The bed was empty. Fur blankets were stern across the floor along with a wad of bloody bandages. A side table had been knocked over--a cup of spilt water had rolled across the room and stopped near his other desk. But other than that, the room remained in the same state Phil had last entered it in.

Phil pushed himself the rest of the way into the room and looked around. He hummed to himself, discovering none of the windows had been opened and he certainly didn’t hear someone come down the latter while he was in his study. He knelt down to inspect the cup; picking it up off the ground and frowning as he realized it was cracked.

Before Phil could even come to realize it, someone had grabbed his shirt and yanked him backwards. Stars exploded in his vision as he was forced back against the wall--and the familiar feeling of a knife pressed firmly against his throat caused panic to explode in his thoughts.

He blinked his eyes open, his breath coming in quick gasps as he was met with the intense red stare of Technoblade inches away from his face. Phil found himself frozen, an instinctual panic overwhelming his senses as he realized his wings were pinned; and he flailed for a moment. The stranger huffed through his nose, narrowing his bleary gaze as he only tightened his grip on Phil’s shoulders. The avian forced himself to calm down--panicking would only get him killed.

A moment passed before Phil’s voice returned to him.

“Hi mate,” he choked out, forcing a small, unsure smile. “Finally awake, yeah?”

Technoblade didn’t answer, only pressed the knife further against Phil’s neck. Not wanting to further scare the stranger, he swallowed back his panic.

“Listen,” he started, keeping his voice low. “You might not wanna do that.”

“Yeah?” Technoblade croaked, raising a single dark eyebrow threateningly. “And what’s stopping me?”

“Well, nothing, I guess,” Phil cleared his throat. “Unless you really  _ want  _ to redo those stitches yourself.”

Technoblade blinked, studying Phil for a few more moments. His grip on Phil’s shoulder didn’t loosen as his gaze flickered to the blood dripping to the ground with a few steady, rhythmic taps--further staining his off-white shirt a dark crimson. Suddenly, his legs gave way and he started to slide to the ground.

The dagger dropped to the floor with a clatter before Phil rushed forwards to catch him, “woahwoahwoahwoah, hey--stay with me now.”

“Where am I?”

“My house,” Phil answered vaguely as he helped the piglin back to sit on the bed. “In a tundra a few thousand blocks north of L’Manberg. Found you half-dead in the woods a few days ago after you fought that guy.”

Phil almost snorted in amusement as he watched memories return to Technoblade slowly--keeping him conscious through the pain that overcame him as he tried not to show how the blood loss was affecting him. Phil pulled on his usual gloves and touched the edge of one of the medical needles that sat unused in his house for decades. He mentally thanked his past self for not throwing it out, considering he never found himself in the dire need for it. 

“So…” He began, turning to his new temporary housemate, needle in hand. “The name’s Philza. Or just Phil. Either’s fine. I take it you’re Technoblade?”

“The one and only,” the piglin answered bluntly, getting the message and moving to take his shirt off. A few more of those strange totems from before rested around his neck; maybe three or four of them. 

Phil hummed in acknowledgement, turning his focus to the torn stitches across the bite on Technoblade’s shoulder. Blood ran down the wound--getting tangled in the scars and bits of matted pink fur. The avian swallowed back any queasiness he felt before moving to grab the bits of black string that were pulled loose from his skin. Technoblade was shaking slightly, back hunched and his head bowed. His eyelids drooped as he rubbed his arms--as if on the verge of passing out again.

“You should probably lay down for this,” Phil suggested, threading his needle.

“Nahh,” Technoblade replied with a snort. “I’ve dealt with worse, just cold.”

“Cold?”

“Well, there ain’t exactly a fire or anything up here,” he elaborated. “And this place ain’t exactly the spittin’ image of the nether.”

“Uh, alright then.” Phil cleared his throat as Technoblade moved to sit cross-legged on the bed, exposing the worst of his injury to him.

As Philza dabbed the wound with an antiseptic, the first few minutes of him treating the wound were silent. Technoblade seemed oddly okay with this whole ordeal, as if this sort-of thing happened to him all the time. It greatly contradicted how he had acted earlier that evening when he awoke--the confused terror and rage in his eyes completely evaporated and was replaced with a sort-of calm drowsiness.

Phil was, admittedly, intrigued by the stranger who sat quietly before him as he stitched up his wounds--only shivering on occasion or shifting to relieve the soreness of his other wounds. His Technoblade piglin theory confirmed, he decided the best thing to do to keep both of themselves conscious was to keep talking.

“So…” He began, deciding to start with the obvious. “I’m assuming you’re the one who’s been raising all my village prices, right? You live around here?”

“I’m new here.” The piglin answered, “heard there was another war brewin’ down here and wanted to get in on the action. Wasn’t informed anyone else lived out here, though.”  
Phil snorted. Right. He’s an anarchist. And a murderer. Remember that. “I’ve been out here for a long while now, it’s quiet and away from the shit show down south. I’m not really one for cities.” He answered, snipping the remaining string of the stitches and quickly moving to wash the blood from his hands. “Some visitors are nice every once in a while, though.”

“You’re not scared of me?”

The question nearly made Phil freeze as he went to close up his first-aid kit. He turned again to look at Technoblade, who was staring back at him curiously. The question didn’t hold any malice, but, it did sound surprised.

“Not particularly,” Phil answered honestly, with a shrug. “I mean, if you were planning on killing me I’d think you would have definitely done it already.”

“Bruhh.”

“What?” Phil raised an eyebrow, putting the kit back into its place at his bedroom desk. “Should I be scared of you?”

Technoblade paused, as if he wasn’t sure of it himself. His mouth opened as if he were about to say something, before he shut it again and shook his head, “nah, I’m not that heartless. I was actually considering doin’ something in return for letting me stay here and stuff.”

Phil raised a hand to his mouth in thought, “hmmm…” One of the gold pendants glinted against the light of his lantern again, and he gestured to them. “How about one of those weird totems?”

“Heh?” Technoblade snorted, and shook his head again, grabbing them in his fist. “Yeah, no. I went through hell and back to get these. But, I do happen to know where to find them.”

“Where’s that?”

“Woodland mansions.” He answered, pushing himself to his feet with a grunt. “I was actually just on my way to one when you found me, if you wanted to tag along.

Phil bit the inside of his cheek in thought, “that depends on what they do.”

“Well...let’s just say there’s a reason why Technoblade never dies.”

Phil’s eyebrows raised. If he wasn’t already interested, he was now. “Any scuffed side effects?”

“Not that I know of,” Technoblade said with a shrug, testing out his arm to see how far he could move it without feeling the pull of the stitches. “They just mess with your head a bit after you use multiple at a time.”

A way to escape  _ death. _

Phil had trouble wrapping his head around the concept, and for a second he considered that he might be dreaming. This couldn’t be real, right? There was no way that something that powerful exists within human reach. Phil had committed centuries worth of research to trying to find a way to get his lives back--years of searching and exploring and experimenting--and now a half-dead complete stranger had just offered him a solution to one of his biggest problems.

Who was he to say no?

“Alright.” He agreed, holding his hand out. “You’ve got yourself a deal, my friend.”

Technoblade smiled, and shook his hand firmly. “Then we’ll leave tomorrow.”

The rest of that night was filled with mindless chatting as Phil got armor and weapons prepared for the journey the next day. He set up a fire as he began sorting through chests and collecting all the old netherite he could muster--and combining it with Technoblade’s supply left little room for error in the coming journey. As he laughed and shared stories with his unlikely new acquaintance, Philza came to realize the house felt a lot warmer with someone else occupying the empty space; and for the first time since his sons left, he could almost consider it a home.

Little did he know, across the ocean and just beyond the dilapidated walls of L’Manberg; a ravine sat lit up with lanterns where a certain blond teenager was mourning the loss of his own.

  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> AAAAAAAAAAA Hello !!  
> Welcome to my first attempt at something posting on this website lol  
> I've had this concept sitting in the back of my head for a while now, and I'm THRILLED to finally be posting this omg. I wanted to post the first chapter and see how it does, considering I started writing it with the intent of it being a one-shot but ended up writing out 10 full chapters for it lmao. If anyone does end up reading this, the second update should be out sometime soon, and I hope u enjoy!! 
> 
> This story is inspired by some aspects of Curseworm's fic The Lights Go Out (My Heart Goes Still), and I highly suggest you check it out!


End file.
